


The Pearl, The Crown, The Queen

by Filigranka



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Voldemort Wins, Gen, Stockholm Syndrome, mentions of Bill and Bellatrix
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-12
Updated: 2017-09-12
Packaged: 2018-12-22 19:18:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,652
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11973969
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Filigranka/pseuds/Filigranka
Summary: Nobody except Death Eaters called Harry “The Boy Who Lived,” now. But Ginny'd survived - and continued to do so.





	The Pearl, The Crown, The Queen

**Author's Note:**

  * For [afinch](https://archiveofourown.org/users/afinch/gifts).



> Million thanks for Irusu for taking a look at this fic!

When the Death Eaters captured her, Ginny was surprised, because she had assumed she would be killed on sight or maybe taken straight to the torture chamber and then publicly tried and executed—she, the icon of resistance who fought alongside Neville from the very first day, The Girl Loved By Harry Potter (nobody except Death Eaters called him “The Boy Who Lived,” now), the living memory of him, and, after some time, for the younger people, the symbol of fighting Voldemort on her own.

Perhaps she overestimated her importance, again. It wasn’t like this mattered anymore.

Or maybe not, because they took her straight to Voldemort. He raised his voice upon seeing her, albeit not loud enough for it to become yelling. Apparently, years of ruling had done wonders for his self-restraint, but he still loved dramatics.

‘Ha! What do we have here? The diamond in my crown, the pearl of my treasure—the backbone of my power.’ He suddenly hissed, ‘The destroyer of your own dreams, welcome.’

‘You’re crazy,’ she blurted. He might kill her for this. She hoped he did.

One of the Death Eaters—very young, so she didn’t know his name—raised his wand in her direction, but before he could even start forming a curse, Voldemort whispered _Crucio_. In the blink of an eye, the boy was rendered a sobbing, screaming mess lying on the ground.

Ginny watched dispassionately. There had been times when she felt compassion for enemies this young, but those times ended years ago, not long after the failed Battle of Hogwarts. She—all of the Resistance fighters—had seen so much cruelty done to the children and by the children... If they allowed themselves to care, they would be dead in a week.

She might understand Snape a little better now. Still hated him, though. Nowadays, she hated herself as well.

The screams ended. ‘Well-behaved young men don’t interrupt the talks of their elders,’ said Voldemort, evenly. ‘I’ll talk to your parents about this. As for you, young lady—madness is a relative concept. What one calls madness, the other calls greatness or genius. But I’ve just been telling you the truth. You must have wondered many times why the plan of your sainted Albus failed…’

No, they hadn’t. Not from this particular perspective, at least. Focusing on the previous defeats would get them nowhere, so if they thought about the Battle of Hogwarts at all, it had been only to wonder what weakness Voldemort, in fact, had, what they could do to bring him down. No dwelling on past mistakes, only taking their lessons from them.

‘And to all these questions,’ continued Voldemort. ‘the answer is you, young lady. You and your fondness for the friend from the diary.’

Ginny froze.

‘You let him influence you, take command of your body and mind... And this connection was enough for a shadow of the soul to be formed.’

The realisation hit her, stealing her breath away. Hermione had told them about the horcruxes and how they were crucial to Voldemort’s power. And now he was telling her, in cryptic terms, that by using this wretched diary—by becoming his willing accomplice—she became a horcrux, too. Or at least: something similar enough.

‘You’re lying. Just like the last time. You should remember _I know you_. I don’t believe a word you say.’

She expected _Crucio_ , awaited it eagerly even. She was disappointed. Voldemort just—shrugged, for the lack of a better word.

‘I’m not going to risk harming the sole insurance of my power. Especially when it’s in such a miserable state.’

For some incomprehensible reason this really irritated her. Yes, she looked bad: starved, only bones and muscles, her hair dirty and tangled, her skin dry, harsh and covered in cooled-down sweat. But Voldemort, of all bastards, commenting on it? When it was his people who made her like look this?

‘Rich coming from someone without his nose, _Tom_.’

She thought she heard Bellatrix’ gasp, but Voldemort didn’t make a move. It was almost pleasant, having power over her, knowing she was infuriated and couldn’t do anything with her anger, couldn’t unleash it like she usually did, couldn’t hurt Ginny—not this time.

It was pleasant, even if the power wasn’t really hers.

‘Yet I am the one with the power. Take her away. Don’t hurt her in any way—don’t even dare to think about hurting her. I’ll know.’

 

*

 

She thought about suicide—she still didn’t believe she was a horcrux of some sort, but she was imprisoned and therefore a potential weak link, a source of information and blackmail.  Killing herself was simply a logical option— but it had proven quite difficult. She was under constant magical surveillance and charms were put on her, protecting her from harm. Voldemort treated her like his crown jewel: put in a treasure vault and close the door. She half-expected to be put into the Gringott’s Bank dungeons one day—although considering how easy it was for a bunch of teenagers to break into it, maybe keeping her in his headquarters instead was a logical move on Voldemort’s part.

Her room was comfy, although not luxurious. She had her own bathroom and a bedroom much bigger than the one she’d had in the Barrow. A bed, a desk, a few shelves, a drawer. They let her take a walk twice a day, let her train her magical and physical abilities three-four times a week, always under a scrutiny of at least three Death Eaters.

She was furious, or at least that was what she told herself, trying very, very much to not feel a bit of pride at being treated like such a dangerous enemy. Voldemort obviously didn’t underestimate her—and that wasn’t a novelty in her life, not exactly, not in the last few years, not after she became one of the most important figures of the Resistance—but before that she’d had to fight tooth and nail to be treated seriously. Not by everybody, of course. Neville and other Hogwart’s ex-students had always treated her like a leader. But older members of the Order of Phoenix tended to focus on her young age and because of her lack of experience, either dismissed her or wanted to protect her. And her own family always treated her like their little girl, which, while completely understandable—and she loved them for this, appreciated this and really loved them, but still, it had been infuriating, sometimes.

Of course, not nearly as infuriating as Voldemort’s protection and care. Of course. After some time, she started to feel the need to repeat it to herself, first rarely and with a laugh, then more often—and finally a few times a day and with no laughter at all.

 

*

 

Voldemort remembered Ginny after a few months. She was brought before him again.

‘I expected you would try to commit suicide,’ he idly commented.

‘I know. You made it very clear with all these magical wards and crowds of Death Eaters around me.’ She sounded less bitter and angry than she felt. She didn’t want to give him the satisfaction. ‘I would, if I could.’

‘You didn’t seem to be trying very hard.’

She shrugged, trying to hide the wave of emotions and self-doubts that hit. Because maybe, just maybe, he was right; maybe after all these years of focusing all her wits and strength on bare survival, she wasn’t capable of focusing on killing herself, wasn’t able to notice some of the possibilities... Or maybe she was just a coward. ‘I told you, I’m not believing any of your words. I remember all your lies from the last time.’

He smiled with his lipless mouth. It was a terrible sight.

‘They weren’t my lies, young lady. They were the lies of my younger, much more... naive self. But still, they worked just fine.’

She gritted her teeth, clenched her fists. She would love to curse him or try to, but the Death Eaters had taken away her wand.

‘If you don’t believe me, maybe your own brother would convince you.’

Her stomach dropped. No matter which of her remaining brothers they’d got, it was bad. They’d gain leverage over her, and all Weasleys, even Percy, were important figures in the Resistance. They knew much. Even if Voldemort preferred not to interrogate her for fear of damaging his asset—his damn soul, if he was to be believed—she more than doubted he would hesitate for a second before hurting her family.

 

*

 

It was Bill they brought to her. He didn’t look so bad—that was a relief. He was thin, but clean, and in a fresh, albeit simple, robe. He looked terribly tired, but that was to be expected. He also looked vaguely guilty, which was a little more unusual... but still not completely unheard of. Quite a few of resistance fighters felt guilt after being captured. They kept going on about all their mistakes, all the things they could have done differently, how they, if they couldn’t escape, could at least have avoided being taken alive. They felt not strong enough, they were afraid of being broken and constantly checked themselves, searching their souls for the smallest signs of betraying the cause, even if in mind only.

She had the feeling it was something different this time. Bill’s troubled face told her it was more personal—but she didn’t want to think of what this might mean. Especially not in the context of Voldemort’s words.

And so, of course, just after their hugs and “good mornings,” she blurted, ‘Voldemort keeps talking about how I’m his... I don’t even know, something like a horcrux, but not exactly? And he said you would convince me—but he’s a madman, I know, I know, right, Bill? Bill? Tell me it’s not true, Bill!’ She raised her voice. ‘Tell me—tell me something, anything!’

But he was silent and didn’t look her in the eye. She understood—and something died inside of her. And she was afraid it was not the part that was Voldemort’s soul.

‘I wasn’t sure,’ Bill blurted finally, still not meeting her eyes. ‘I couldn’t—what I was supposed to do? Tell you to kill yourself? Tell them to—‘ he choked on the sentence. ‘—to kill you? When I didn’t even have proof, just a bunch of foreign old tales about exotic magic and some feelings? I love you, Ginny, for God’s sake! You’re my little sister! I just wanted to—I needed to protect you. I love you,’ he repeated helplessly. ‘I wasn’t sure. And the situation grew so dire, I was afraid they would... take a risk.... and what if it didn’t work? Like with Harry? They—We, I—would... sacrifice you—in vain?’

‘It worked with Harry,’ she said coldly. ‘And he came back. Didn’t you think I’d—‘

‘How could I be sure? It wasn’t a typical horcrux situation, it was something different, something taken straight from... like I said, foreign, exotic magic. I had no access to the sources, not anymore, I couldn’t check it, I couldn’t find any solution... Why would I bring it up? How could I live with myself if they—you know what—and nothing changed?’

‘So you decided to doom us all instead? Let Harry’s sacrifice be in vain?’ Coward, she thought, calmly and coolly. Her coldness surprised her a little, but she blamed it on years of fighting in the resistance. The years had broken her, they had broken them all.

‘You’re my sister. We all lost so much, so many in this war—and I love you, Ginny. Please, believe me.’

That, she believed. He loved her. So many stupid things people did for love. He never took her perspective into account on that matter. She would gladly sacrifice herself for the sake of victory—that is, for the sake of them all. She supposed she could understand it, rationally. Bill, after all, would probably sacrifice himself for the sake of them all, for her, too. It was just that sacrificing others was a little harder.

She understood it rationally, but it didn’t help her feeling angry and betrayed by him. Yet she also understood that getting angry at Bill would lead her nowhere. She needed an ally, a friend, here, for the sake of her own well-being at least. And she might get some information from Bill, and with the information she might be able to protect him and other prisoners. Knowledge is power.

‘I love you, too,’ that was the proper answer. And it was true, wasn’t it? ‘I love you, you big old fool. But you need to tell me everything you know about these... exotic tales.’

He looked afraid. ‘Ginny, I don’t want you to—blame yourself or try anything stupid.’

‘I won’t. But we might be able to find some way to defeat Voldemort in them. I think he himself doesn’t know how this works. It’s the only advantage we have. Please, Bill. I can’t just sit in this cage, doing nothing. It’s making me crazy. Bill, tell me you understand, please.’

 

*

  
Bill’s information indeed proved useful, if cryptic. Old tales suggested—in some interpretations, at least—the slight possibility of not only feeling, but also influencing the emotions and decisions of the one you were connected to. On both sides.

Ginny threw herself at it. Voldemort—Tom, the one from the diary—definitely used this connection, so maybe she could, too. Voldemort in himself was ruthless and merciless and she had no illusions about being able to make him feel love or pity; but subtly influencing him, feeding his ego, convincing him that some big gesture of mercy would make him even greater, make public opinion admire him more, make him go down the history, convincing him that others are just pests, too low and pathetic to be concerned with—this might work. After all, Voldemort took good care of her. Yes, for completely selfish reasons, but this in itself proved she stood a chance, if only because he would not kill her immediately upon discovering what was she plotting.

It might work, she repeated to herself. Especially if she had some sort of old, dark magic on her side. She decided to start with putting Dark Arts training into her schedule.

 

*

 

Then, Bill approved of her plan, albeit grudgingly. It was with time that his uneasiness and fear grew. With time, and with Ginny’s stories about her progress: how in her nightmares she had changed from being the victim to being the one in power, how she could understand Voldemort—Tom, as she insisted, _let’s call him what he is, not what he wants to be_ _—_ better and better, how she felt she could slowly predict his next actions, how she started to dream of them.

She couldn’t be sure if it was magic or just normal, human empathy. She didn’t care. She didn’t care about anything as long as she felt predicting—controlling—Tom was getting closer and closer.

Bill, in sharp contrast, was growing more and more frightened, despite her new “abilities” being the main thing that allowed them to meet. So she just stopped talking to him about it all, pretending she’d abandoned her plan. She couldn’t bear seeing him frightened, but couldn’t let him stop her, either. Who knew what would happen, then?

And she loved him and cared about him, after all.

 

*

 

The first person—objective, object—she decided to check her influence with, was Bellatrix. For everything this witch had had done to Ginny’s friends and family: to Hermione, to Neville, to Ron, to Mother—Mum. Ginny craved revenge, always had. She just hadn’t seen how much…. Until now.

Provoking that woman was so fricking easy. Ginny was surprised how easy, to be honest—why hadn’t she realized it sooner? _Bella_ was always furious, unpredictable, unstable and madly jealous for Tom’s attention. Every time she was guarding Ginny, she was obviously on the verge of erupting. Just few remarks about her age, her lack of children, the wrinkles in her eyes—and the terrified, suppressed laughter of male Death Eaters—was enough to push her over the edge.

The first few times, she just ran out of the room, followed by the screams of people who were unfortunate enough to get in her way. From the rumours Ginny heard, Bella’s behaviour after these “sessions” was even more cruel and destructive, to the point at which Tom was finally getting irritated at seeing his plans thwarted by her furious fits.

Which, of course, made Bella frightened and even more crazy. And more angry at Ginny, so throwing her out of balance became easier and easier.

Finally the woman snapped. After one of Ginny’s curses missed her by an inch, and the girl’s flippant comment about her lack of a cool head and proper defensive stance—and at her age, to boot! Or maybe it’s because of her age, some decades are so hard for women—Bellatrix just grabbed a wand and hissed _Crucio_ at her.

Ginny didn’t even try to avoid the curse. It was just as she had planned, after all. Other Death Eaters, terrified out of their minds, dragged a screaming Bellatrix away, reminding her about Voldemort’s orders. Bella threw curses left and right, hurting quite a few of them in the process.

Ginny didn’t cry, of course. Tom despised weakness and knew no pity. Instead, she did her best not to scream and fall to the ground, and when the others finally managed to take Bella away, she threw them a big, bold, truculent smile.

‘Let’s continue, _boys_ , shall we?’

 

*

 

‘I see what you did to Bellatrix.’ Tom didn’t seem angry, just dispassionate, as per usual.

Ginny shrugged. ‘Of course. I expected you would.’ It wasn’t an especially complicated plot, after all.

Tom’s red eyes narrowed even more. She didn’t think it was possible, and yet.

‘You didn’t think I would stop you?’

‘Why? You like those who fight for their place. You’re always encouraging your army to constantly challenge themselves, push themselves further. If she was weak enough to be provoked like that, she deserved punishment.’ Besides, she thought, very clearly, at the bright, easy-available surface of her mind, she has been a liability for years, now.

‘I thought that playing games like that was below your heroic, Griffindor’s bunch,’ commented Tom idly. ‘Calling other beings liabilities, too. Sentencing them to be punished by me… this, especially.’

Ginny looked him straight in the eye. Right now, she had nothing to hide, all her feelings completely honest.

‘She tortured my friends,’ she said plainly. ‘And killed my mother.’ _There’s nothing I wouldn’t do to her._ ‘I think you might understand this.’

Tom’s hand twitched on his wand and for a brief second she thought she had crossed the line, despite her constantly “sending” the placating magical feeling and influence through their bond—if their bond really even existed—but then he relaxed. If Tom’s pose could be called relaxed, either way.

‘I might. I killed the man who wronged my mother, after all.’ His lips twitched, almost like he wanted to smile sardonically, like he just told a joke only the two of them could understand. ‘What would you make me do to Bellatrix, then?’

She was too wise to take the bait.

‘Whatever you want. I’m not in a position to tell you.’

‘Clever girl.’ His thin lips widened in some parody of a smile. ‘But you can suggest. And let me tell you, your mind is already full of… interesting propositions.’

 

*

 

Bellatrix screamed and screamed, and didn’t beg for mercy, not even once. Ginny, throwing curses with a new-found easiness and efficiency, had to admit, grudgingly, that this woman could be a wonderful servant, a most useful tool, had she not gone mad in Azkaban. It was fortunate she did, really—otherwise, Ginny’s revenge would be so much harder to conduct, less rational, less right.

She caught a glimpse of Bill’s pale, horrified face in the crowd. She didn’t let it stop her. He didn’t understand, of course, couldn’t understand, he had never felt that real connection between himself and Tom, could never have the power to influence Tom’s decisions within his grasp. He couldn’t understand and while it was irritating— _betrayal, another one, again, again underestimating you, treating you like a little girl_ —Ginny forgave him almost without a thought. He couldn’t stop her, after all, helpless prisoner, bound and enslaved by his principles most of all.

And, of course, she loved him. She loved them all, her friends, her family, her comrades. She was doing all of it for them. Definitely.

Although the fear in Death’s Eaters’ gazes and Tom’s approving smile—the power it promised—were quite nice side-rewards, too.

 

*

 

She still dreamt about being the one in power, the one judging and punishing, the one blessing and rewarding, the one who decides. But at some point those dreams stopped feeling like nightmares and now she woke up smiling, relaxed and ready—and when she jumped out of bed, she could feel the whole world trembling at her feet.

 

*

 

She was the destroyer of all hope, the pearl of darkness, the crown jewel of the madman—and she was going to become so much more than that. She was going to become its right hand, its heart, the whisper in its brain, the tremble of its hand. She was going to change it, deconstruct it from the inside and make the world better—perfect, even, a perfect place. Just like her. She would succeed where others failed.

For she was the diamond of power, concentrating it all in her facets, clearing and strengthening it. For she was the pearl of magic, born from desire and ambition.

For she was the destroyer of all dreams, but her own.


End file.
